


Lockdown

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Analysis, M/M, Omorashi, Panic Attacks, Parent/Child Incest, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Malcolm accidentally experiences what a lockdown in Claremont entails. He's in for the night.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	1. 3

He knew that it was always a possibility. The fear of it happening lived somewhere in the back of his brain, but like anything that gave him anxiety, Malcolm tried not to focus on it. So when the alarms sounded just twenty minutes before the nightly lock up, fear jumped up Bright's throat and threatened to choke him. His eyes went wide and he spun around, making a b-line for the door. He made it there just in time to see Mr. David's retreating form turn a corner at the end of the corridor.

He swallowed, nostrils flaring, jaw tightening. He turned back around, towards his father, his breath coming too rapidly. It was amazing just how quickly a panic attack could consume him. It wrapped its slimy tongue of terror around him and dragged him down.

"W-what is this?" Malcolm asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

"It's a lockdown my dear boy," Martin said calmly. He was apparently completely unaffected by the latest development, unlike his shaking son.

"No, I want out," Malcolm turned back to the door and raised a fist to it. He smacked against the glass furiously. "Hey! HEY! LET ME OUT!" he screamed. "MR. DAVID! ANYONE! GET ME OUT!" He banged and banged until pain coursed through his hand. But the only sound that met his efforts was the familiar snap and pull of Martin's tether.

"Malcolm," the killer tried. But Bright was just continuing to hammer away at the door that stood between he and freedom. He didn't care that he was battering his hand, not if it could save his sanity.

"I WANT OUT. GET ME OUT!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, feelings the sear of the words burn up his throat. "PLEASE!" the last word broke under the weight of helplessness. Who he was begging, he wasn't even sure. Maybe a guard would hear him? Maybe God would?

"MALCOLM!" Martin screamed, and it finally got the young profiler's attention. Bright turned around and both his hands were shaking - the left from his tremor and the right from his assault of the glass. "Malcolm," he said in a normal tone this time. "I know that you're scared..."

Scared? Scared! That was the understatement of the century. Claustrophobia unfurled its familiar bony fingers and wrapped around Malcolm's neck. The room narrowed and he struggled to breathe. His hands flew to his tie, yanking it apart, as if that would help. He was wheezing, eyes going wide and helpless with a dread that Martin had never witnessed in his son before.

It was scaring Martin who held his hands out. "Malcolm, my boy, you're safe. Nothing will hurt you in here."

"Aside from you?" he shouted, the words squeaking past his constricting throat.

"I would. Never. Hurt. You." Martin punctuated each word, his head tilted with sincerity. "Look, I can tell that you're feeling a bit...entrapped...but I want you to stop thinking of that door as something holding you in. And start thinking of it as a barrier that is protecting you from whatever bad thing is happening out there."

Hot tears gathered at Malcolm's eyes and his lip trembled. His brows knitted and sloped upward as his legs lost their solidity and morphed into Jell-O. "I want out," he said in a pleading voice laced with terror. "I want out."

"I know," Martin's own lip was quivering with the effort to not be undone at seeing his boy like this. So scared. "Please. Please come here, please," Martin's arms remained outstretched. The need to comfort his boy was overwhelming - all-consuming. He would have given up his entire fortune just to be able to break free from the tether and wrap his arms around his boy.

Malcolm's body shook. His finger tips tingled and the room swayed. "C-can't breath," he cried, tears streaming down his face.

Martin swallowed nervously and tilted his hands, fingers threading through the empty air before him. He was genuinely scared. Not of the lockdown, but of what it was doing to Malcolm. "You can. You can breathe," he reassured. "I know that right now, all you can see is panic. But you know - logically - that this is a panic attack. Panic can't hurt you my boy," he continued to speak, hoping to reason with the spiraling young man.

Malcolm felt a pain in his chest and he continued yanking off his tie, throwing it on the floor. He let his jacket follow. "So hot. No air."

"Uh-uh," Martin chided. "That's a lie and you know it. There's plenty of air."

Malcolm let out a strangled sob and his wildly shaking, numb hand, reached for his pocket. He was instinctively grabbing for the pill case that was usually there, the one that contained Xanax, but it wasn't there. It was a metal pill box that contained serious substances. Claremont made him leave it at the front desk every time he visited.

More tears came and he choked on his own breath and spit. Little dots floated in his peripheral vision and he let out a sob.

"God, Malcolm," Martin's voice was twisted in agony. "Come here, please," he pleaded.

"No..." Malcolm whispered, falling farther into the dark of anxiety.

Martin gritted his jaw. He needed to think of something and fast, before Malcolm passed out. He knew that if he screamed for help, no one would come. It was up to him and him alone to help his boy. He needed to snap him out of this.

"Come here," he tried again.

"N-no," Malcolm sobbed.

That was it.

"COME HERE NOW!" Martin screamed.

Bleary ice blue eyes focused on his and Malcolm's feet began wobbling towards his father. Before this, Malcolm wouldn't have fathomed ever crossing that red line. And yet, here he was, stumbling forward, choosing the lesser of two evils. Obeying the command.

Luckily, Martin's hands were handcuffed, but not tethered to his waist. So he raised his arms and brought his hands down behind Malcolm, encircling him in a makeshift hug.  
It was the first time he'd had any physical contact with his son since he was eleven and had hugged him last.

Martin tightened his grip, squeezing like a boa, and bringing his cheek against Malcolm's wet face. "It's okay," he soothed. "Listen to me. Focus on my voice," he lulled. "You are here with your father. You are safe in my arms. And I would sooner die than let anything happen to you. Including letting you be consumed by your own fear," he kept his tone steady, and clung to his boy's dress shirt with his fingers. "Focus on the sound of my breathing," he paused, taking several steady breaths. "Focus on my fingertips at your shoulders."

He was shocked when Malcolm's arms raised and reciprocated the hug. It seemed to be working.

"You may be spending the night with me," he said. Instantly, Malcolm tried to pull away, muttering 'no' over and over again, panic trying to make a resurgence. "Listen," Martin said solidly. The command brought Malcolm back to him. He was just far enough away to see his red, tear-stained eyes, huge with fear. "Listen to me Malcolm," he raised his hands and brought them to the back of Malcolm's neck. "Even if you do have to spend a night here, it's not the end of the world. Believe me, I know how you're feeling right now. I swear to God I do. The first night that the doors closed on me..." he stopped, gulping. "But I'm still alive, aren't I? I'm still here. I've seen the morning light, and so will you."

Malcolm hung his head, embarrassed.

Martin took his hands and brought them over Malcolm's head so that he could touch the young man's face. "You will get through this," Martin cooed. "You are such a strong boy..."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. And in the moments when you feel weak, well...then I'll be strong for you."

Malcolm's shining eyes peered up at him through long brown lashes that saltily stuck together.

"I'm sorry that...that you're here right now," Martin said sadly. "But there's no point in dwelling on what can't be changed. So we're going to get ready for bed, just like..." he stopped dead in his tracks. He almost said, 'just like when you were a child,' but that was too painful to bring up. "...just like I get ready for bed every night," he supplanted.

Malcolm nodded and took a step back. He ran a hand through his hair and got a handle on his breathing. What truly had helped was hearing his father's breathing, feeling the cool breath skate over his warm tears. As soon as he stepped away, he missed it desperately.

"There's only one problem I'm having," Martin said, shuffling his weight.

"What's that?"

"Well...I'm only all tied up like this...," he turned and regarded the tether, "when I have a visitor." "I can't reach the bed like this. Or the toilet," he sighed. "Right now, it's the latter that I desperately need access to."

"W-well, what can I do about it?" Malcolm asked. "It's not like I have a key," he turned to look over his shoulder. Nothing. No one. "And there's no guard coming."  
Martin swallowed thickly and considered whether he should tell Malcolm. He had to. He had no choice. "I - uh - have an instrument," he nodded towards his desk. "I need you to get it for me."

Malcolm's features darkened. "An instrument...to let you out?"

"Yes."

"N-no. No way. I'm not..."

"You have to Malcolm," he tried. "I can't sleep on the floor and I'm certainly not going to piss myself in front of you."

Malcolm blinked several times and tried not to let that mental image in.

Too late.

"It's behind my desk."

"I'm not - I'm not letting you out," he spoke, knowing that his resolve was disintegrating.

"Please Malcolm," he found himself begging and didn't like the taste it left on his lips.

"T-the lockdown could end though. Any second..."

"It could," Martin agreed. "But it's still past light's out. No one comes or goes at night, not even the guards have a shift change. They come before lock in and leave at morning light. The building's sealed up Mal."

Malcolm twisted his fingers together.

"I'm not saying this to...make you upset or anxious. I just...I really need to pee. I really need to be able to sleep on a surface that isn't the floor. Believe me, I've done both...sleeping on the floor and peeing myself and neither were particularly pleasant."

Malcolm took a sharp breath in. Considering his options.

"Plus...Malcolm...well, if whatever *is* going on out there does manage to make it's way into this room. If someone bad gets a guard's key and decides to come this way...I want...I *need* to be able to protect you," his voice dropped impossibly low.

Malcolm's heartbeat was fluttering like bird wings beating against his chest. He had a sudden mental image of someone with crazed eyes and a white outfit to match storming into their little space with a weapon. What would his father do? "How would you protect me?" he found himself asking.

"I'd hope that you wouldn't have to find out. But I need to be able to defend you Malcolm," his own hands were now shaking, just imagining someone coming to hurt his boy. "As a boy...you were afraid of monsters," he remembered his fevered coma dream. "I told you that there was no such thing. I lied. There are monsters. And I made sure that I was the biggest, baddest monster of all," his tone deepened, "so that no one would ever hurt me again. And so that no one would ever. ever. hurt you."

Bright took in a deep breath and nodded.

"Go get the instrument," he commanded with a nod towards the desk, and he was relieved to see his son's feet begin to move.

"How do I know that you didn't orchestrate this," Malcolm asked, his back turned to Martin.

"What happened...last time...I rather selfishly orchestrated to make myself look good. Your sister had that lovely camera, didn't she? But I can guarantee you that I didn't plan this," Martin assured. "There is no opportunity here for me to do anything and you know it."

Malcolm peered over at Martin, whose hands were now in front of his...private area. Apparently from the way he was grasping himself, he did have to pee quite badly. "Tell me where it is."

"To the left," Martin craned his neck, trying to see. "Under that wooden lip. Please hurry, my boy."

"I feel it, but it's stuck."

Martin made a distressed noise.

After a few minutes, Malcolm wrenched it free.

He brought the long metal instrument towards his father, hesitating before handing it over. As he did passed it to him, Martin's fingers grazed his, and it instantly brought him back to the moment when he handed his father the scalpel. Did that count as their first contact? Or did this hug? He wasn't sure, and he didn't want to analyze how both instances made him squirm with heat.

"Fuck, I'm not gonna make it," Martin spoke under his breath as he began fiddling with his handcuffs, shoving the metal apparatus into the space where a key belonged.

"Make it?"

"To the bathroom," Martin nodded in the direction of the metal toilet near the foot of his bed.

"Oh," Malcolm pushed down the blush that threatened to rise.

"I have to get the cuffs off, then the tether...it'll take at least fifteen minutes."

"Well, erm, how much longer can you hold it for?"

"Maybe five more minutes. I had to go before you got here, but I knew that lights out was fast approaching and didn't want to waste any time."

"I'm - sorry."

Martin paused, looked at him for a moment. "Don't be." He resumed working at shoving the metal into the tumblers that held him captive.

Silence wrapped around them, save for the desperate scrape of metal on metal.

"I - I can't sleep here," Malcolm whispered.

Martin stole another glance at him.

"Because you sleep in restraints? Night terrors," he stated flatly.

"Yeah..."

"I'll hold you."

"Y-you'll what?" he squeaked, unsure how his father had managed to bypass answering the last question.

"I'll hold you while you sleep so that you don't hurt yourself."

"Or I just...won't sleep."

"Oh, I don't think that's an option," Martin quickened his speed. "You looked exhausted from the moment you walked through that door. And that panic attack took it out of you - I can tell."

"Two people can't even fit on that thing," Malcolm looked at the single bed. "And I'm not letting you...hold me...while I sleep. Before today I hadn't even..."

"Touched me? Hugged me? It's been twenty years. I know, believe me," Martin said, a tinge of sadness in his voice that speared Malcolm. "You say that you won't let me. But you will," he said knowingly. The words with their psychic ease of seeing the future settled oddly in Malcolm's chest. He tried not to be relieved at the offer. "I won't let you get hurt. I will protect you. Even if it's from yourself," Martin popped the cuffs open, but it was too late.

"Fuck," he cursed, clutching at his crotch. Yellow began streaming down his leg in warm rivulets, the stain growing large along his white pants. It trickled down his left leg and wetted his sock, filled his shoe. He heard Malcolm suck a shocked breath in. His cheeks were burning with embarrassment, just like his own.

Since he had started, there was no point in stopping. He just closed his eyes and tried not to focus on Malcolm's stunned gaze that was glued to his ruined pants, ears trained on the hiss of his urinating or the way that it trickled in droplets to the linoleum floor.

"I- I'm so sorry," Malcolm said in a tiny voice. "I should have gotten you the instrument sooner."

"It's not your fault," Martin soothed, feeling the last of his bladder empty. He never thought that he would be in such a humiliating position in front of his son. But Malcolm didn't seem repulsed. Just overly apologetic.

"I don't suppose you have a change of clothes in here?"

Martin laughed. "Yeah, they leave my spare outfits right next to the warm peanuts and hot towels."

Malcolm's cheeks were still flushed red and his eyes were swollen from crying. He looked...rapturous in the dim light.

"Maybe you could help me undo this tether?"

"Yeah, yes," he stepped around the yellow puddle and took the device. He would have to be successful in freeing Martin from the tether because the surgeon couldn't do it himself. Not with the tether behind him. And he wasn't about to let Martin sleep on the floor in a puddle of his own piss - murderer or not.

One thing was for sure, this was bound to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm used the metal, stick-like device to try and undo the tether. He felt the pressure of his task and his hand began to tremble. The more he struggled, the longer Martin would be forced to stand here in his own mess. It was his fault. He should have listened - obeyed, he thought. That word - 'obeyed' - made his stomach flutter and he tried to shove that realization firmly into the box at the back of his brain labeled, 'Martin,' that he kept a tight lid on at all times. His hands fumbled, the shake intensifying, and the instrument clanged to the floor. He let out a frustrated whine.

"It's okay Malcolm," Martin assured, twisting around to watch Malcolm pick up the metal. "Just relax sweetheart," the words were spoken as Malcolm was rising after bending over to pick it up and he stopped cold. "Sweetheart," the term of endearment stunned him into a full stop. He had to clear his throat and force himself to stand, avoiding Martin's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning the silver in his hands and watching it catch the light. "What if I...can't..."

"You can," Martin said quickly, unwavering. "Just put the metal back into the slot where the key goes. Push it past the tumblers, try and finness it and wiggle it..."

"And what if I can't get it?"

"You can," he cooed.

Despite the encouragement, Malcolm's hand continued to tremble and he sucked in several breaths, desperate to stop it. He wanted to free Martin, he needed to, and yet, some tiny corner of his psyche was still afraid to unleash this man. If anything went wrong, it would be on him.

There was nothing but the sound of tinkling metal between them now as Malcolm attempted to work. Then, Martin laughed suddenly, the rich sound filling the space and almost making Bright jump. Malcolm's ministrations stopped.

"Is this funny to you?" Malcolm squealed. "Because I fail to see the humor."

"No...I wasn't laughing about this situation per se. Rather, I was...remembering," he smiled. "It's something I do often in here...there's little else to do after-all."

"What were you remembering?" Malcolm resumed his efforts.

"Well, when you were three, I was trying to teach you how to swim," his eyes sparkled and crinkled at the corners as he reminisced. "You doubted yourself. God, you were so..." he held his hands up. "So small," he marveled. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't worried just a bit. You were so very tiny," his tone was warm. "You stood on the edge of the pool, toes curling against the lip. Hands twisting together as you looked out on the water."

Malcolm listened, shocked at the ease with which Martin summoned the past and painted it in vivid colors. He could practically smell the chlorine, feel the warm summer breeze against his skin, hear the splashing and shouting from the other kids.

"I got into the pool. Held my arms out. Encouraged you," Martin continued. "Oh, it was a beautiful day. And you were ready to take the leap, I knew you were. The problem was you were overthinking it, stuck in the 'what if' loop...something that many people struggle with their entire lives. It was your first taste of that, of having to break through the limitations you were putting on yourself and just...trust me. Trust yourself. Jump."

"And I did," Malcolm said in a breath, a faded and long forgotten memory floating to the surface. He remembered his father with his upturned hands, just waiting. He remembered making the final decision and jumping, feet pushing off the cement, body making contact with the water - with the strong arms that awaited him.

The lock between his hands clicked and fell open. He stared down in shock at his success.

He let the tether fall to the ground.

Martin turned around, beaming.

"You told me that story to distract me."

Martin raised a hand and cupped Malcolm's face. He tilted his head and with a smile said, "I knew you could do it, my boy."

Malcolm blinked several times, feeling both the thrill and dread that his father was now free. Excitement bubbled beneath the surface of his panic and he found it more tolerable than suffocating under the weight of terror. Still, he couldn't help his visceral reactions... the way his nostrils flared, the dilation of his pupils, the speeding of his breath, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Each movement was being recorded by Martin's hungry gaze. Staring at those blue/green eyes was like a window to freedom, a swirl of earth and air that made him feel dizzy if he stared for too long.

Malcolm snapped himself out of the daze and took a step back, watching Martin's hand fall - and with it, his expression.

"Well," he started, "I suppose I should clean myself up.

"H-how?" Malcolm asked, his eyes darting to the corner with the little metal toilet and sink. From the looks of it, Martin was out of toilet paper. There were no towels or paper towels. There was no change of clothes. "Why don't you have a change of clothes? They make you sleep in that?" he looked at the white outfit with drying urine stains.  
"Yes," Martin said with a winced smile. "I get a fresh change every two days."

Malcolm returned to his previous inquiry. "So how are you going to clean yourself up?"

"Excellent question," Martin turned and regarded his empty toilet paper.

Bright recalled Martin's promise that he would hold him as he slept and adrenaline coursed through him. Would...would Martin be...naked?

"I guess it's best to start with just...water," Martin took a step forward, out of the puddle of urine, towards the sink. He halted suddenly though and Malcolm was unsure of what he was doing until he saw the surgeon's head lower. Oh. He was regarding the red line. He heard Martin take a breath and watched him step over it. He went to the sink and stopped, half-turning. He looked back at Malcolm, still standing behind the lake of pee, still holding the metal instrument. Martin licked his lower lip and then bit it, finally deciding on what to do.

He slid off the fuzzy, oatmeal colored sweater and let it fall to the floor. Apparently, it's length ensured that it was covered in pee. Then, his hands went to the hem of his shirt. He crossed his arms, pulling the garment up and over his head and he draped it on the back of the sink. Then he kicked off his clog-like shoes, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and dragged them down his legs, along with his yellowed boxers.

Malcolm could do little more than stare. His brain told him to turn around, to offer privacy, but his eyes would not obey. He watched the monster strip down until he was nothing but skin. And...he was half hard.

Martin was never a self-conscious type, he had no reason to be. He was a genius in his own right, a doctor, a rich man. At least he was all those things before his arrest. As a free man, both men and women had swooned over him - it made acquiring his victims that much easier. Yet, in the moments before slipping off his clinging pants, he paused. He could feel Malcolm's eyes heavy upon him and it made his cock begin to fill.

He expected his boy to turn around, to shy away, to flush with embarrassment and sputter protests. None of those things happened. Malcolm simply stood stock still, his gaze sliding from one point on Martin to another. From his weathered hands to his strong arms, from the hair that peppered his chest to his strong, thick thighs. And that gaze lingered longest as his cock, jutting straight out, strawberry red at the head and growing increasingly hard with every second that the young man refused to avert his gaze.

Malcolm watched in real time as Martin's cock rose, until the older man finally turned towards the sink and pressed the button for water. He heard the hiss of it spurting from the faucet and surmised that it had to be cold, due to the suck of Martin's breath as he splashed it on his body. Malcolm studied his back...the way the curls at the back of his head ceased at the base of his neck. The splay of freckles over his shoulders. The love handles that sat roundly at his hips, the dimples above his ass.

He was horrified at his reaction and breathing far too quickly. With every passing second he grew harder. He heard the splash of water as Martin gave himself an impromptu sponge bath, sans sponge. He kept having to hit the button on the sink because it would only give him ten seconds of water at a time.

Martin was parting his legs now, scooping a handful of water up before half turning.

Malcolm groaned at the sight. Martin was fully hard now, drops of water slipping through his fingers as he held it in suspension. He had never been so torn in his life. He wanted to both run away screaming and rush forward to help. He was disgusted with himself, with his body's reaction, with his mind's prompting. His breaths were shaking, but his hand wasn't. He watched in abhorred fascination as Martin turned a bit more...facing him three quarters of the way, and began bringing the water to his soft stomach. It was round and pillowed and Malcolm just...wanted...to touch. He knew the skin would be soft. So soft.

Martin hit the button and got another handful. He let this cupful of liquid slide down his right thigh, parting his legs a little to get his inner thigh. Malcolm wasn't even aware that he had moaned until the sound was long past his lips. Martin hit the button again, brought this handful to his left thigh. Malcolm watched the rivulets of water wrap around his legs and speed towards the linoleum floor.

Martin's cock was red all over now, pulsing with his heartbeat. He sucked in a breath, wordlessly staring at Malcolm before getting another palmful of water. This time, he brought it to his swollen cock...his eyes remaining open and trained on Malcolm as he let the water loose on his heated flesh. The water was freezing and his eyes snapped shut as a hiss left his mouth. Then he took several deep breaths and wrapped his hand around his cock, sliding it down. He spread the water...down to his balls, grasping the unruly gray curls there that matched his beard and hair.

Malcom was shifting in place, his erection screaming for release. He knew that Martin couldn't put back on his same ruined clothes. Would he sleep naked? Hold Malcolm against his arousal in that tiny bed made for one? Bright dug the heel of his hand into the bulge at his slacks, unable to take the pressure, and Martin moaned helplessly. He was heaving in breaths now, licking his lips constantly. He stroked his cock and precum leaked from its tip.

Bright was fascinated by the movement...by the obscene view before him of an indomitable man, shivering from cold or arousal or both. The precum was clear and thick and travelled to the ground in a viscous droplet, held to his cock by a string of more clear precum, until it finally dropped to the floor. His mouth was dry and his whole body was vibrating. He had to speak. To do something before he cracked apart.

"What...are you going to...sleep in?" he said, his own voice foreign to his ears.

"I don't know," came the breathy reply. Martin reached for his shirt and began drying his body with it before he froze. Then, he moved to put it back on, sliding his hands through the arm holes. But Malcolm took a step forward, forgetting about the puddle of piss at his feet and walking right into it. There went his shoes... "D-don't," he said, surprised at his own boldness. He gathered up his strength and crossed the red line as well, moving forward until he stood in front of Martin. He reached for the now water soaked shirts and pulled them away from Martin, draping them once again over the sink's back. His eyes were raking over the older body, stopping to study the slope of his collar bone, the hair on his chest, the rosy pink nipples...the stab wound.

Before reason could catch him, Malcolm was reaching out and brushing the pads of his fingers over a nipple, then lower, to the puckered flesh. Martin's head lulled back and his eyes slipped shut as his mouth parted in a moan. Bright swept his thumb over the wound, rubbing in circles.

Movement caught the corner of his eye and he lowered his gaze to see Martin's cock twitching, surging against the air, straining against nothingness. He considered whether he ought to...

Martin's eyes fluttered open, returning to his, but his mouth never closed. He stared at Malcolm, trying to measure the situation, far too terrified of breaking this trance. Too scared to speak. To move. The ball was in Malcolm's court entirely.

Malcolm's whole right hand was at the wound now, feeling around it, rubbing patterns into the flesh, feeling his heart pound beneath it.

He never expected this from his boy. Never saw it coming. His hands were steady and the unoccupied one came, rather suddenly, to grip his erection. His mouth opened further in a wordless scream, and he forced his eyes to remain open. Malcolm was pushing him backwards...against the dusky red painted wall, their feet sloshing through the water, until his back hit the cold cinderblock.

Malcolm pumped him with his left hand, hard and fast. And with his right, he dug his thumb into the barely healed wound. It hurt like hell. Pain exploded at the spot and screamed outward. The air rushed from Martin's lungs as his orgasm swept through him with a vengeance. Malcolm was tilting his cock so that the jets of pulsing come were coating Martin's own wet and naked, heaving chest. He came and came until his vision threatened to give way.

Malcolm slid his hand over the doctor's cock one last time, and then dragged that same hand up Martin's shaking chest, trailing through the come. He slid it around the soft flesh, cool as marble. Fingers grazing through his chest hair, thumb exploring his pointed nipple. And Martin was just there...pinned to the wall - wide eyed - still trying to catch his breath. And Malcolm...he wanted so desperately to sit on his lap, to put his ear to that chest and listen to the heartbeat once more. He wanted to taste the come that he made Martin spill.

The surgeon groaned, loud and deep, almost a growl. "Fuck Malcolm," he said breathlessly. "If you want to taste. Do it."

Shit...

Shit. Shit. He must have said those things aloud. The problem was, he just couldn't...bring himself to do it. He looked at Martin with pleading eyes. "Do it for me," he whispered.  
Martin's cock tried a resurgence and he groaned at the pain. His chest still ached from where Malcolm had pressed into the wound. He swallowed, then brought his hand up and dragged a finger through the come on his own chest. It gathered at his finger tip. He brought it to Malcolm's mouth, parting the cloud-like lips and pressing in. Malcolm took the digit in, sinking down to the knuckle and humming around the explosion of taste as his hooded eyes stared into Martin's.

That was the moment Martin knew... he was done for.


	3. Chapter 3

“Go lie down Malcolm,” Martin nodded toward the cot. “I think it’s time for bed.”  
“Fully clothed?” Malcolm asked, running his hand down his shirt front.

“Up to you,” Martin licked his lips and struggled to take calming breaths in order to get his heart back to a normal beat. He wasn’t succeeding - not with the sight of Malcolm in front of him, arousal pulling his pants tight. “Although I think you’d be more comfortable without the button down and slacks.”

Malcolm’s ice blue eyes were huge and imploring. Possibilities hung heavy in the air between them, a thousand roads stretching out in every direction, and Malcolm seemed to be driving them down their current route. Martin didn’t want to be forceful - for once he wasn’t steering, but he certainly didn’t mind the direction Malcolm was going in, so why grapple for control?  
It was apparent that a line had been crossed. A massive, blood red line that made the one on the floor look like chalk dust and wishful thinking.

Malcolm walked over to the tiny cot, unsure of how both he and Martin would fit on it for the night. He imagined a variety of configurations, all of which left him breathless, heart pounding. He shed the remainder of his clothes, peeling away the layers until only his boxers were left.  
Martin’s eyes remained glued to him, tracking his nimble fingers as they exposed more and more skin. Once Malcolm was left in nothing more than his boxers (which weren’t successful in hiding very much) he reached for the thin cover and pulled it back. The bed creaked as he climbed inside.

With the show over, Martin moved to the sink and washed off the mess on his chest. As he wiped away the last of the come with water, he shivered. By the time he finished at the sink, he was positively freezing. He padded across the concrete floor on his bare feet, watching Malcolm’s face as he came closer. Malcolm scooted over, his left shoulder pressing against the cool painted cinder block wall to make room.

The cot dipped beneath Martin's weight. He entered the sacred space beneath the blanket. His eyes were warm, despite his freezing flesh. Malcolm placed a hand on the right side of Martin’s chest and could feel his heart echoing there.

“You’re so cold,” Malcolm drew closer with concern on his face.

Martin wasn’t concerned with how dreadfully frigid his skin was, not when there a thousand questions clogging his head.

Never. He never saw this coming. His boy’s desire for his body. The surprise was a shock, one that he was still struggling to comprehend. It wasn’t an unwelcome development. Martin had no hesitation when it came to sexual gray areas, but he was morally bankrupt. His boy wasn’t.

“Why did you leave the boxers on?” he whispered.

“So that you could take them off,” Malcolm answered in a voice so low he almost couldn’t register it as his own.

Martin groaned and reached for Malcolm blindly. He found the elastic waistband of his boxers with the pads of his fingers and slid his finger tips inside. He dragged the fabric down as far as he could without ruining their comfortable equilibrium, and Malcolm shucked them the rest of the way off.

Martin licked his lips, desperate to devour Malcolm with his eyes, but he could be patient.  
Instead, he lifted a hand and ran it through Malcolm’s hair. “When did this start Malcolm?” he whispered, welcoming the warmth of his boy’s body so close to his own. Rather than shy away or scoot backwards, Malcolm only inched closer, which made his now naked arousal press against Martin’s hip.

“I - I don’t know. Don’t want to talk about it,” Malcolm slipped his arms under Martin’s and he pressed himself fully against the killer.

Martin sank into the embrace, grateful for the heat radiating off the slender body in his arms. “I think it warrants talking about.”

“Does it? Or would action be better?” Malcolm punctuated the question by rolling his hips against the solid flesh of Whitly’s hip bone.

“You have to deal with this. I don’t want you hating me for anything that happens in here tonight,” Martin buried his face in the crook of Malcolm’s neck, breathing in the scent he’d so long sought but had never been able to get close enough to.

“I promise...I won’t. I know that I’m the impetus,” Malcolm admitted, grinding his erection into Martin once more. He felt a swell of guilt for having dragged Martin further into the gutter, but he selfishly pushed it away. For once, he was going to take what he needed.

“Are you sure you want this?” Martin growled, the strength of his resolve slipping rapidly.

“Yes.”

And with that singular word, Martin knew there was no going back. He relinquished the last of his reservations and flipped his boy onto his back with dizzying speed.

After a brief moment of disorientation, Malcolm found that he rather enjoyed being pinned beneath the weight of Doctor Whitly. The predator looked down at him with a smile in his eyes, tongue gracing over his canine’s in a lion-like fashion that made Malcolm flashback to when he had been ‘interviewing’ Martin during his collegiate days.

He remembered that day with vivid clarity. The way Martin’s eyes lit up with pride at Malcolm’s smart deductions. The way he wiggled in his seat and described how he’d kill Malcolm.

Bright knew he was fucked right then and there. He had become aroused at Martin’s violent descriptions, and even worse, his own mind was quick to supply its own murderous suggestions.

Now, Martin was above him. Uncuffed. Untethered. A madness in his eyes that had a sexual glint to its edge. He could so easily kill Malcolm, and that knowledge only turned Bright on.

“Now Malcolm, I need you to listen to me carefully and answer honestly,” Martin ground himself down, giving Bright the delicious friction, he desperately sought as an incentive. “I am a dominant and I need to know...are you a submissive?”

“F-fuck. Yes. I am. Submissive,” he gave his staccato answer, too occupied with the insatiable need that clawed at him.

“I figured as much. Always knew we were a perfect fit,” he purred. Leaning over, Martin strained to retrieve something from underneath his bed. Malcolm listened as the metal under the cot groaned. Martin’s hand reappeared with a small bottle of lube.

Without ceremony, Martin popped it open and squeezed some onto both of his hands. He finally rid them of the blanket, hating to give up the warmth but more than desperate for what was to come. He slicked Malcolm’s cock with his left and with his right, he reached behind himself and began to open himself up.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Malcolm asked, fully cognizant of Martin’s eyes caressing his cock along with his hand.

“You’re going to penetrate me,” he said shakily, barely able to get the words out through the haze of lust and excitement. “But make no mistake, I am the one who will be fucking you.”

Malcolm gulped, his train of thought derailing and smashing into the mountainside that was Martin Whitly, larger than life above him. “I will still be dominant, even with your cock inside me, do you understand?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes,” he tried to move his hips upward, to fuck the fist that held him too loosely, but Martin came to play - to tease - and that’s exactly what he did to Malcolm as he stretched himself open.

The preparation seemed to take forever as far as Malcolm was concerned, even though his logical brain knew that it hadn’t been that long. In fact, Martin was likely to hurt himself on the throbbing cock due to his lack of preparation. But both of them needed this, and they needed it now.

After Martin had deemed that he’d ‘done enough,’ he raised himself over Malcolm’s arousal. 

“Anything you don’t want to do? Anything off limits?” Martin asked belatedly through hooded eyes.

Malcolm could feel the heat emanating from Whitly he was so close. So very close.

“M-maybe kissing. For now, that just seems like...too much.”

Martin was disappointed, but he didn’t let it show (or at least he thought he didn’t). “Sounds good to me. Are you ready?”

Malcolm nodded eagerly; his mouth too occupied beneath the press of his own teeth. He bit his lip and waited.

“Oh, how I wish we had a proper bed,” Martin stared at him longingly. “And all the toys I could wish for.” He positioned Malcolm’s cock at his entrance and began his descent. “I’d chain you up so nice and tight and edge you to infinity. You’d be begging for relief...crying for it. You’re so gorgeous when you cry,” he shook as he took Malcolm inside of himself.

Malcolm trembled with the effort not to buck up into that waiting heat. His chest heaved as his eyes stared at where they joined together.

“This reminds you of stabbing me, doesn’t it?”

Malcolm should have known Martin would be a talker. But he wasn’t wrong.

“Fuck - yes.”

“It felt good, didn’t it?”

He threw his head back and let out the same moan he had suppressed at the time.

“You like penetrating me,” Martin hummed. “It gave you a rush of power,” Martin raised and lowered himself on Malcolm’s cock. He began fucking in earnest, pushing past the pain as he roughly speared himself. “You want me to suffer.”

“N-no, that’s not it.”

“You want to be in control. To see that shout of red lifeblood dripping to the ground.”

“Ah...that’s not…”

None of this was fair. He was powerless to defend against Martin’s assessment while his cock was being engulfed by the person who had swallowed up the rest of his life as well. There was no denying that it was so satisfying to stab Martin. It was just as heady to bring the axe down on that man’s hand months earlier. Maybe he did like inflicting pain - tired of it always being the other way around. But if that was the case…

“Then why do I think of you fucking me? Dream of it? Want it?” Malcolm couldn’t even lift his hips. Martin had him pinned and helpless. He was using Malcolm’s cock for his own pleasure. Taking, even as he was receiving.

“Oh, you do enjoy penetrating. Inflicting pain. But you also want to be dominated, subjugated. To be let out of the cage that is your own head. Surrender everything and fall into an ocean of blissfully quiet pleasure,” Martin leaned forward and brought his hands to Malcolm’s neck and began squeezing. Bright’s plush lips fell open but no pleas to stop rose to the surface.

He couldn’t reconcile how much he simultaneously hated and loved being profiled by his very own monster. “There’s so much you have to face, but don’t want to. Like the very fact that you want me at all,” Martin rode him brutally, his hands tightening around Malcolm’s pulsing neck in a fleshy vice.

Rational though had been abandoned beneath the weight and gaze and strangling skill of the surgeon.

He gasped for breath, the air whistling as it tried to press past the barrier Martin presented. He reached for Whitly’s cock, fingers wrapping around the renewed hardness. He could barely believe that Martin had two in him at his age, but he probably hadn’t fucked (or been fucked) in twenty years.

Malcolm tried to give a warning, the words, “gonna come,” garbled into a mumbled mess as he fought for air.

His vision narrowed and he felt his orgasm slide towards his cock after languidly carving paths through his entire body first. He hadn’t even come yet, and he already knew this was the best orgasm of his life.

He made an inhuman noise as he began to come inside of Martin. His body rang out with it, eyes sliding shut as his body spasmed. It seemed endless in the most wondrously torturous way possible.

Malcolm eventually became aware that the grip at his neck was gone. Martin’s large hand was wrapped around his own impressive arousal and his cock twitched in his hand as he began to come on Bright’s chest.

It was a sight to behold. The monster flying apart at the seams, his face slack in rapturous relief. His insides clenched around Malcolm’s softening cock.

It was only when Martin was pulling off him that Malcolm saw the finger shaped bruises already forming on Martin’s thighs. He watched the larger man move off of him, saw his own come dripping from Whitly, spikes of pleasure sharp as knives slicing through him with satisfaction at the sight.

Malcolm was boneless, breathless, a wrecked mess unable to move. Martin didn’t have that problem. He promptly left for the sink.

Malcolm closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of the ten second water stream. Martin returned and cleaned off his come covered chest. When he was done, he climbed into bed with Malcolm.

The lights weren’t going off. The invasive fluorescent lights stayed on due to the lockdown, which made it harder for Malcolm to come to terms with what he’d just done. He felt filthy but satisfied in a way that he never had before. The niggling voice at the back of his head was quiet for once. No hallucinations. No tremors. Nothing but the satisfied buzz of post-coital bliss.

Martin climbed back into bed and covered them both with the blanket.

“When the lockdown is over...and they open the door. Whichever guard it is...is going to find us naked in bed together,” Malcolm whispered as he turned to face the concrete wall. Martin’s arms came around him naturally, making him the little spoon. He leaned into Malcolm’s neck, scenting him before beginning to sow the seeds of a hickey.

“I’ll pay them to forget,” Martin said between kisses.

Malcolm closed his eyes and wondered if he would have a nightmare.

“What does this mean?” Malcolm breathed the question onto the cinder blocks, feeling his breath come back to brush him across the cheek.

Martin didn’t answer.

An easy quietness lingered between them and Malcolm felt sleep reach for him. Just as he began to slip off the edge of consciousness, he finally heard Martin answer his earlier question.

“It means we’re the same.”


End file.
